


Love;

by artimess_chimes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Finished, M/M, Sherlock is lonely, Sherlock is soft, i dont know why i wrote this, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 21:49:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13912860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artimess_chimes/pseuds/artimess_chimes
Summary: A map of Sherlock's heart throughout series 1-3.





	Love;

When Sherlock first met John, he never once thought that he would be the man that would gently coax the softness out of Sherlock's deepest hiding places. The small, fit army captain with gentle hands, a pudgy middle,and steel behind his worn-thin smiles nudged his way between Sherlock’s heart and brain and seemed to correct the disconnect between the two. 

 

It happened softly, so softly. 

 

The night of their first case,when they ran after the taxi John had quickly become a steady beating heart next to him, a following set of footprints pounding behind him. 

 

And then, later, as Sherlock stared across a shimmering parking lot at a John seemingly plain and beige, a man made of background noise, he knew. It shivered through him with a crack and left a ringing in his ears louder then the sound of the gunshot that had saved his life. A potential love, a possible bewitchment, an enchantment that drifted along with all the maybes of the world. A soft perhaps. 

 

Sherlock shrugged it off, stuffed that small melting into a distant corner of his brain and continued to dash ahead, leapt on into life with a smirk and a swagger and John dragged along. John followed, and for a long moment in time Sherlock believed that John was there because John needed the adrenaline Sherlock provided. John was weak, a true addict to danger, and Sherlock was a dealer whose only payment was the need for a sounding board and audience for his own genius. Sherlock, as always, was the unattached, unfeeling party.

 

Oh what a fool he had been. 

 

It had grown in him, the softness. It had grown and sprouted vines and roots, dug deep into the dirt of his soul. It had fed off John’s smiles like sunlight, sprouted a leaf every time a gaze had lingered for a beat too long, had unfurled blossoms with every healing, heating touch. Life seemed to increase in intensity with John in it, hues more pigmented, emotions more potent, everything so much more thrilling. Sherlock began to feel touch starved, every little flick of those tan fingers feeling for a moment like an oasis from the fizzing loneliness that bubbled and chafed against his skin. 

 

And still he ignored the growth, like a gardener who refused to see how the weeds choked out the crop.  

 

Finally, all at once, John had leaned close enough to kiss and Sherlock had felt the glitch in his brain as the tree grew too heavy to be kept silent and fell against his power lines. The resulting power outage left Sherlock in the dark for days, wondering how had such a thing happened? To him, of all people? 

So Sherlock was furious, for awhile. Enraged that he too could fall, that love had grown so strongly in him, the heartless. That someone so great, so smart could be tricked into irredeemable vulnerability by a pair of blue eyes and lips that held humor like some held spit. 

Still the vines grew.

 

Sherlock's anger dimmed. 

 

Of all the people that milled about the earth, there were worst people to fall for. In fact, as Sherlock observed and concluded and deduced, he became convinced that there was none better. So Sherlock grew to love his love, and he held his softness in him with pride because who couldn't help but love John? John was selfless. John was kind. John was brave. John was all the indescribable thousand ticks and quirks that make up a person, but more. Better. He glowed. 

 

A past Sherlock would have resented all the sentiment he suddenly hoarded within him. Nurturing his emotion, tending his love sprout, sending ripples out through his still waters became a darling game that he played at night, or in the very early morning when the sun was only just blushing over the horizon. Sherlock loved the warmth that caring caused with in him, and so he fanned it into burning flames, candlewick skin and candle wax heart. 

 

Because his own love was enough. To know he cared for John satisfied him. What did it matter, he reasoned, if John loved him too? True love was selfless. True love was unconditional. True love did not need to be requited. 

So Sherlock gave with a fervor he did not know he possessed. Sherlock lived and died for John.

Sherlock suffered and cried and bled and smiled for John. Sherlock left and he came back for John. He was a man consumed, but he burnt so gladly, so so gladly. 

 

And he asked for nothing, so long as he could depend on John being next to him, eyes filled with awe, words filled with praise, hands outstretched. 

 

Then one day, a coy woman in blonde stole John away. And Sherlock was told that he shouldn't have left, should have sent word, should have, shouldn't. Couldn,t John see it was all for him, to save them? That Sherlock would never hurt him, never leave him willingly? And the softness that had made Sherlock's brain and body it's kingdom turned sharp. 

 

And then Sherlock knew heartbreak. 

 

But True love was selfless. True Love was unconditional. True love didn't need to be requited. 


End file.
